


Better than Revenge

by xsnarksthespot



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sexual Content, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 07:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3439283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: How about a “our asshole mutual friends set us up on a blind date and didn’t tell us it was a blind date, so instead of getting to know each other we spent the entire ‘date’ scheming against them and decided an awesome way to get back at them would be to pretend to date and then have a horrendous breakup but now that we’re two months into this charade we’re not sure what’s real and what’s fake anymore” au</p><p> <br/><i>Two weeks later, they are officially in obnoxious territory.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Better than Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this AU, everyone's American. Except Porthos, who's English. It only makes a small difference in how I write them, but there it is anyway.

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a tattoo shop owner without any visible tattoos…”

Aramis blinks and looks up. Sure enough, the guy is looking straight at him. If this is a pick-up line, it’s the weirdest one Aramis has ever heard.

“...What?”

Uncertainty flickers at the corner of Porthos’ friendly smile. He takes off his sunglasses and hooks them into the frayed collar of his t-shirt. It’s faded blue, with the words ‘don’t worry, be yoncé’ across the chest. The long sleeves are rolled up to expose the vibrant tattoos on his forearms. Aramis tells himself to focus on the guy’s _face_ , but really, that’s not overly helpful. It’s a good face, and there’s another tattoo peeking over the edge of his collar. Talk about distracting. Aramis really doesn’t have time for this, even if he might like to find some. 

“Hm. Maybe I’ve got this wrong? My mate told me to look for a pretty bearded bloke in braces.” Porthos sends a cursory glance around the coffee shop with a lift of one scarred eyebrow. “Not gonna lie, I thought I’d find a gaggle of hipsters fittin’ that description, but looks like you’re flyin’ solo.”

Not sure if he should be offended or amused, Aramis leans back in his chair with a smirk and looks Porthos over. d’Artagnan had told him that the contractor would find _him_ and to just grab a coffee and wait, but Porthos’ opening line comes back to him.

“Did d’Artagnan tell you I owned a tattoo parlor?”

“Who’s d’Artagnan?”

Well. That answers that. Sort of.

“Is your name Athos?” Aramis tries, because he vaguely remembers the mention of that name, and only because he also remembers asking why anyone would name their kid after a mountain covered in monks. Not that he has a whole lot of room to judge names. 

For some reason, that makes Porthos laugh through his nose, then narrow his eyes in suspicion. 

“No, I’m Porthos. Athos is the mate who told me what to look for.” Porthos watches Aramis’ confusion etch a deeper furrow between his eyebrows and then he seems to make up his mind about something. Without another word, he plops down into the only other chair at the ridiculously tiny table. His knees bump into Aramis’ as he leans forward, expressive face open and curious. 

“So you’re _not_ the owner of a tattoo shop lookin’ for a new artist.”

Aramis sits up a little straighter, if only because having Porthos’ legs nudging against his own is hell on his concentration.

“I’m afraid not. I’m a fashion designer.”

“I--” Surprise widens Porthos’ eyes and he laughs again. This time there’s a glimpse of teeth. “Wait. Aramis? As in _Aramis_ , with the posh leather coats and the frilly underthings.”

Instinctively, Aramis wants to be insulted. And he is, just not as much as he’d like to be. To have his entire line reduced in such a way _is_ offensive, but he’s rather proud of those posh leather coats and frilly underthings, so it’s hard to get his feathers _too_ ruffled over it.

“Among other things,” he counters with a tight smile.

Porthos watches him silently for a moment and then leans back, dangling his arm down the back of his chair. 

“Huh.”

“I’m really trying not to be offended here.”

“Hm? Oh! Sorry. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. My ex was really into your stuff. I still have some of it...” Porthos says, fidgeting with his dangling sunglasses. A shameless grin dawns first at one corner of his mouth before taking over the rest. “She tries to claim it back every couple of months, but I seem to have _lost it all_.”

Aramis’ laugh catches him by surprise. He finally sets down his cup of coffee, which he’s been holding up near his mouth like an unconscious barrier this whole time.

“Nice.” Leaning forward, Aramis props his head in one hand and taps the tabletop with the fingertips of the other. “So. You’re a tattoo artist?”

“That’s right.”

“ _Not_ a contractor.”

Judging by Porthos’ amused smile, they’re both coming to the same realization at once. They’ve been duped.

“Not professionally, no. I can put together IKEA furniture without feelin’ the urge to murder anyone?”

Aramis chuckles and then sighs, dropping his hand to the table. “It seems that we have been mutually misled, Porthos.”

“Looks that way.” Again, Porthos watches him, and Aramis gets the feeling he’s being picked apart at the seams. Whatever Porthos finds doesn’t send him running. It does make him chew on his bottom lip and tilt his head to the side, however.

“Does this d’Artagnan bloke do this often?”

“Set me up on blind dates while lying through his teeth? No.” Aramis scratches at the side of his nose. “He does think he’s rather clever, though. And it’s been…” Realizing he’s about to overshare, Aramis trails off and smiles through a flash of awkwardness.

“...A while?” Porthos guesses. His return smile is sympathetic without being pitying. 

“Yes. I...I’ve been busy.”

Porthos makes an understanding noise, shifting his too knowing gaze down and away. “Easily done.”

“How about you?”

“Has it been awhile?”

“Does your friend do this often,” Aramis clarifies. 

“Ha,” Porthos barks. “No. We have been fightin’ more lately, though. He prolly thinks he’s doin’ me a solid. Well. That or he just wants his life to be easier. I’m a lot more likeable when I’m gettin’ some on the regular.”

Smirking, Aramis relaxes into his chair and lifts his mug to take a sip. “You seem plenty likeable to me.”

“To be fair, I’m on my best behavior. Seein’ as this is a date and all.”

Aramis sputters a laugh. “Ah, yes. Naturally.”

They slip into silence for a moment. By all rights, it should be uncomfortable. It’s not. Aramis tries not to read into that.

But an idea swims to the surface of his mind, anyway. He’s feeling just a bit vengeful, and Porthos strikes him as someone who might like to have some fun. d’Artagnan really should learn not to meddle, anyhow.

“Porthos?”

“Hm?”

“How would you feel about a little payback?”

Porthos’ grin is deliciously wicked. “Whatcha have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, they are officially in obnoxious territory. Porthos has never seen Athos make the switch from smug to irritated so forcefully in his life. But then, they are laying it on rather thick. Aramis sends Porthos unending text messages, from painfully cutesy to just plain filthy, and Porthos reads them out loud to Athos, no matter how many times his friend demands a ceasefire. They take each other everywhere Athos or d’Artagnan intend to be, whether they’re invited or not, and they spend most of the night blatantly making out in full view or cooing about each other. 

Porthos has learned that d’Artagnan is young and hilariously vocal. While Athos will quietly suffer through his oldest friend’s “new relationship” (for the most part), d’Artagnan complains _constantly_. ‘Oh my god, I regret everything” and “for fuck’s sake, Aramis, keep your hands on the wheel!” are two of Porthos’ personal favorites.

He’s having a damn good time. He can admit that much. He can even admit that he likes d’Artagnan and feels a little bad for fucking with him. Any time he starts to feel bad about Athos, though, he thinks how his grumpy best mate would feel if the tables had been turned, and he doesn’t feel so bad anymore.

What Porthos refuses to admit is that his actual favorite moments are when Athos and d’Artagnan leave, when the act falls away and it’s just him and Aramis. When they end up talking for hours, on the phone or in Aramis’ car. He loves listening to Aramis talk. Loves hearing Aramis laugh at his dumb jokes. Not because their targets are nearby, but just _because_. And the once, when they’d skipped going out altogether just to share takeaway boxes and watch cooking shows. How they’d heckled professional chefs from a lazy recline on the sofa until they fell asleep on each other, and Porthos had woken up with their fingers laced together.

He ignores the way his body aches, too, after he’s been pressed up against Aramis for hours on end, putting on a good show.

Well, he ignores it until he has to bloody well do something about it in secret, anyway.

Wanking in a public toilet is not his finest moment. He knows that. But he can still feel Aramis’ fingers against the base of his spine, the scrape of a smirking mouth full of teeth at his throat. And fuck, he’s starting to worry he’ll never forget what kissing Aramis feels like, that his own kisses are starting to turn tender, and that the little breathy moans Aramis’ makes are carving out a permanent place in his head.

This isn’t the plan. The plan is a few weeks of playacting and then a brutal “break up” scene to rival the worst soap opera. Let Athos and d’Artagnan learn from their mistake.

Eventually, they can come clean and all be friends. 

It’s a good plan.

It’s a good plan?

It _is_ a good plan. Porthos just has to try not to fuck it up.

 

* * *

 

Week three: Aramis is an idiot. 

“What? I thought you said you liked cronuts…” Porthos frowns. He looks down at the box in his hands as if he’s trying to figure out where he went wrong, and good God, Aramis very nearly climbs him to kiss the furrow between Porthos’ eyebrows.

“I...I do. I love them.”

“Then why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

Why _is_ he looking at Porthos with a combination of horror and regret? Well, that’s simple. He feels as if a mule has kicked him in the chest. And then sat on him for good measure. It’s not even as if he didn’t know he was in trouble. He’d known on day two, when Porthos had stopped grinning long enough to pull him close by a suspender and kiss the corner of his mouth.

No, he’s looking at Porthos “like that” because he knows now, in this moment, that he is truly, deeply, _desperately_ screwed.

The lines at Dominique Ansel Bakery are notoriously hit and miss. Even a couple years after the cronut pandemonium was at its peak, you can still get stuck in line for an hour or two. It’s raining now, too. Which means Porthos stood in the rain, for God knows how long, at a godawful hour, just to bring Aramis pastries that he mentioned, once. In _passing_.

A few droplets of water drizzle down from Porthos’ curls, where his hoodie has failed to protect him from the elements, and he lifts his eyebrows comically high when Aramis continues to stare at him.

Eventually, Aramis manages to croak, “It’s nine in the morning.”

“So?”

“d’Artagnan isn’t here?”

Aramis can see Porthos swallow. He smiles anyway, embarrassed but not so easily shaken.

“I know. I mean, I figured. I just thought...well, I needed to go for a run anyway, and you said…” He huffs a shaky little laugh. “Here, look. Just, take them, yeah? I’ve got a long way back to my place.”

Porthos holds the box out with gloved hands and Aramis finds himself staring at it again, like it might hold some master secret as to why he is such a complete and utter dumbass. Sadly, the box does not open up and enlighten him. It does _smell_ amazing, though. 

He’s at least fifty percent convinced the tempting smell is coming from the box and not the beautifully damp man in front of him.

There’s only one way to be sure, obviously, but he knows burying his face into the crook of Porthos’ neck does not fall in the category of previously approved contact. Not without Athos or d’Artagnan around to witness it.

“ _Aramis_. Take the bloody box.”

Aramis jerks like he’s just gotten a rain gutter full of water to the face. 

“Right! Sorry!” He steps forward to reach for the box, but apparently Porthos has a similar idea, and they end up practically stepping on each other toes. The plastic bag covered pastry box crunches dramatically between their bellies.

Porthos laughs, and that heady sounds pulls a laugh out of Aramis too, even before it trails off into a wheeze.

“...Come inside, Porthos,” Aramis smiles. 

“Nah, I don’t want to put you out.”

Aramis scoffs and twists a hand into the ties of Porthos’ hoodie. When he steps back, Porthos follows, a slow smile shaping his mouth.

Shutting the door behind him, Aramis nudges Porthos towards the kitchen with his palms pressed against the hard curves of Porthos’ back. 

“My cronut better still be in one piece.”

 

* * *

 

Athos has something to say. Porthos can feel it in his bones. But since he’s got his ‘don’t rush me, I’m percolating’ face on, Porthos just keeps working on his sketch. 

He’s halfway through the mock-up before he realizes he’s unintentionally designed a tattoo for Aramis. Fuck. 

“You don’t read me obnoxious texts anymore,” Athos says. 

And if that isn’t enough to spin Porthos’ head towards him so fast he nearly cracks his neck, then the look of concern on Athos’ face is the real kicker.

“Is that a _complaint_?” he laughs.

Athos shrugs and takes a drink of his wine. “I merely wanted to make sure everything was still good between you two.”

Ugh. He’s meddling. Clearly Athos hasn’t learned his lesson.

But then, neither has Porthos.

“Everything’s roses, Athos.” Porthos grins as he crunches the sketch up in his fist and tosses it in the trash. He’ll go back for it later, but he doesn’t know that.

“You’re sure? You know you can talk to me if--”

“--Holy hell, shut up. I mean, I love you, mate, but seriously. When did you become Dr. Phil?”

Athos actually manages to look hurt, which naturally makes Porthos feel like a giant heel. His face falls and he wraps an arm around Athos’ shoulder.

“I know I can talk to you, Athos. There’s just nothin’ to talk about.”

Despite the fact that he doesn’t look convinced, Athos only watches Porthos’ face for a moment and then nods. A smirk eventually pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Did you still want to give me a tattoo? I was thinking about a giant octopus...”

Porthos’ eyes go wide.

“Don’t fucking tease me!”

Athos chuckles under his breath.

 

* * *

 

“I thought you said you could do this _without_ wanting to murder someone.” 

“I was tryin’ to be funny!” 

“Yes, well. _Ha ha_ ,” Aramis teases.

The box says “dresser”. It looks more like a crooked bookcase, at present. It's for the spare room and he'll eventually get around to renovating as planned, so it doesn't need to be spectacular, but Aramis would prefer it at least vaguely resemble what he purchased.

He tries to focus on the incomprehensible instructions laid out on the floor in front of his knees, but Porthos is kneeling next to him, beads of sweat at his temples, half-sleeves glaringly visible with the lamp's shade removed. All that light should probably wash out the colorful tattoos, but all it does is highlight the details Aramis has missed in the last five weeks.

Porthos' right arm is dedicated to flipping fairy tales on their heads. The knight in shining armor is a woman, darkly beautiful and brandishing shield and sword. Instead of fighting the dragon with iridescent green and gold scales, she’s protecting it from a mob. And she’s smiling, wicked and fierce. There are other elements, too, but Aramis’ attention gets stolen by the tattoo spilling out from under Porthos’ loose collar. With the way Porthos is bent over, Aramis can see the minotaur that reaches up the side of his neck in black geometric relief, and the matching maze that stretches across his shoulder. 

Aramis is staring. Wondering. How far does it go? Can he come up with an excuse to get Porthos out of his shirt without being brutally obvious?

Probably not.

“Okay, I think...this is where we buggered it,” Porthos mumbles, reaching over Aramis’ propped forearm to point out two steps on the instructions. They’re a good ten steps back.

“Ugh.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” Porthos smirks. “Want me to get us some more beers?”

“Please.”

Aramis watches Porthos climb to his feet, tall and broad in all the right places. He nearly catches him by the pocket of his jeans and yanks him back to the carpet, but sanity prevails at the last second. Asking Porthos to help him build a dresser is regrettable enough.

When Porthos returns, beer bottles opened and dangling from the fingers of one hand, Aramis has successfully made their problem even worse. It doesn’t even look like a bookcase anymore. Well, maybe if a bookcase survived a hurricane and an earthquake at once.

Porthos whistles. “...Wow.”

“Oh my God, I know.”

“No, but seriously.”

“ _Porthos_.”

“What, I can’t be impressed?”

“Will you please just shut up and come here?”

“Uh huh...Oi, don’t touch that one,” Porthos growls protectively, crouching to swat Aramis’ hand away. “I’m pretty sure that piece is actually _angry_ with you.”

An hour later, they’re half-drunk and laying on the carpet next to each other, a pile of gleefully destroyed wood two feet away. 

There’s a bent nail somewhere under his right buttcheek, but Aramis is still sure he’s never laughed this hard or this long in his life.

 

* * *

 

d’Artagnan’s apartment smells like fall. And booze. Fuck, so much booze. 

Porthos slips in through the front door, melting seamlessly into the throng of partygoers. Flipping his cape off one shoulder, he heads straight for d’Artagnan.

“Porthos!” d’Artagnan gives him a hug just this side of too friendly. Kid’s clearly been enjoying the happy juice for awhile now. “When Aramis showed up alone, I was worried you weren’t coming!”

“Ah, nothin’ like that. I had to work.” Porthos grins when he finally gets released and can get a good look at d’Artagnan’s costume. “Captain America? _Really_?”

“ _Commander Rogers_ , thank you very much.”

“Even then. Are there like ten of you running around here?”

“Noo…,” d’Artagnan protests, taking a swig from his Dixie cup. His eyes slide sideways towards a group near the kitchen. “Okay, there’s a WWII Cap and a BuckyCap, but that’s _not at all the same thing_.”

Porthos laughs and claps d’Artagnan on the back. He’s done enough geek tattoos over the years that he can keep up with the kid’s defense, but he still patronizingly whispers, “Of course not. Totally different.”

He gets an impressive glare for his effort.

“You look great, kid. Commander Rogers is the best uniform, no question.”

“That’s what _I’ve_ been saying!” d’Artagnan beams a grin and gestures across the room with his cup. “Aramis was in the kitchen last I saw him. Go get something to drink!”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir!” Porthos salutes and heads for the kitchen. He gets closer to the source of the music as he moves, so he doesn’t catch whatever d’Artagnan yells after him.

“What?” he shouts back.

“I _said_ , nice costumes!”

Confused by the plural, but not interested in having a shouting match, Porthos just waves a hand and pushes through the swinging door into the kitchen. It’s a degree quieter in here at least. Two women dressed like nuns finish off a pair of shots to his right and then laughingly make their way back out into the living room. After the swirl of black cloth disappears, Porthos finally spots Aramis with Athos, next to the sink. 

Athos is dressed all in brown. Brown jeans - it doesn’t surprise Porthos in the least bit that Athos owns brown jeans - brown t-shirt, brown cardigan. Porthos thinks he even sees a peek of brown socks in brown loafers.

Porthos laughs and the abrupt burst of sound draws Athos and Aramis’ attention to him.

“Seriously?!” he grins at Athos. gesturing at the outfit.

“You said I couldn’t wear all _black_ ,” Athos smirks.

“You’re such a shit. I love it.”

When Porthos turns his grin towards Aramis, intent on leaning in to give him a kiss hello (he can do that with Athos here, he’s entirely too happy he can do that with Athos here), he finds a pair of unblinking brown eyes staring hard at his costume. Which naturally drops his focus to Aramis’ costume.

“Oh, cute,” Athos says dryly. “You match.”

Technically, they don’t match. They _coordinate_. Porthos is dressed as Lando Calrissian; Aramis as Han Solo. 

It isn’t planned. It _isn’t_. It’s a ridiculous coincidence. They’ve been spending more days together than apart for weeks, but it’s still _completely accidental_. 

It makes Aramis break out into a grin that nearly knocks Porthos on his ass.

Porthos giggles, feeling punch drunk and just a little bit crazy. “Why, you slimy, double-crossing, no-good swindler,” he growls.

Aramis’ laugh is all teeth and squinting eyes and hardly any sound.

Okay, correction. Porthos feels a lot crazy. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

Porthos curls a hand around the back of Aramis’ neck and pins him against the counter for a kiss. He has every intention of forcing Athos to watch some serious tongue action, but his body apparently doesn’t get the memo. It’s weirdly gentle. Sweet. _Adoring_. Aramis sends it all back to him in this hazy loop of lips and quiet sounds.

It’s still enough to make Athos roll his eyes and wander away, but now Porthos is cradling Aramis’ face and kissing him slower, drawing it out. He’s learned a few things about Aramis’ mouth in the last two months. What, in particular, gets him to groan low in his throat and cling to Porthos. How, if he drags his tongue against Aramis’ at the same time as the slightest push of his hips, Aramis goes boneless. Sometimes, he even whines.

Like now.

“Wooo! Lando and Han!” a female voice cheers somewhere nearby. “Now _this_ is a party!”

Porthos breaks the kiss with a breathy laugh, shooting a look over his shoulder. The blonde covers her heart with both hands and then holds them out in gratitude. Before Porthos can say anything cheeky in return, she hooks an arm around Athos - who’s standing, belligerently mute, next to the fridge - and drags him out the door.

The graze of Aramis’ fingers down his neck snaps Porthos’ attention back to the man he’s still got pressed against the cabinetry. 

“You know…,” Aramis murmurs, “...the end of a party is a good time for making a scene.”

For a second, Porthos doesn’t understand. When it clicks, his smile withers away. A break-up scene. _The_ break-up scene. Right.

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course.” He takes a step back, adjusting his costume. “I…” God, his throat is like sandpaper. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I just meant, if you thought it was time--”

“--I know what you meant, Aramis. It’s alright. We’ve let this...this farce go on long enough.”

Porthos isn’t looking at Aramis when he says it. He can’t. He regrets the words anyway, because they taste like the worst kind of lie. 

The kind of lie that cuts twice.

Sure enough, he’s hit his mark, unintentional as it may be.

“Oh. Well. I was going to ask how you _really_ felt about all of this, but I guess that answers that.”

Porthos swings his gaze back to Aramis, suddenly panicked, suddenly completely _aware_ that he’s misread this, but Aramis pushes past him. 

“Wait, wait. Aramis, hold on a second.”

The swinging door’s edge catches him right in the face. It doesn’t have a lot of force behind it, but it still makes his eyes water.

“ _Fuck_.” Porthos blinks at the crowds scattered around the apartment when he finally makes it through to the living room. Aramis is nowhere in sight. Grabbing the closest person by the arm, he starts badgering everyone within range, one after the other. 

“Hey, did you see where Aramis went? You, yeah you. Aramis? _Han Solo_! Did you see where Han Solo went?!”

Finally a girl dressed as a zombie points towards the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony. There’s at least five people squashed into that tiny space out there, and Porthos can’t tell if Aramis is one of them, but he doesn’t exactly have a lot of options. He hurries over to the doors and squeezes out into the cool October air.

“Ugh,” Aramis groans from the other side of the balcony. “I’m not doing this right now, Porthos! Come back when I’m drunk!”

Porthos tries to politely work his way through the four people Aramis has managed to hide behind, but the last guy is d’Artagnan and he enfolds Porthos in a surprisingly strong hug.

“Poooorthos! Hey. _Hey_. Can I play with your blaster?”

Normally, Porthos would have laughed, but he’s completely zeroed in on Aramis. He unholsters the fake gun from his hip and presses it into d’Artagnan’s hands, using the handover as an excuse to - gently - push the kid out of his way.

“Yayyy,” d’Artagnan quietly cheers before, thankfully, wandering back inside making blasting noises.

Porthos breathes Aramis' name as soon as the door slides shut and cuts off the swell of music.

 

* * *

 

It’s a beautiful night. Chilly but clear. Aramis takes a heavy swig from his plastic cup and does not look at Porthos. 

God, he knew. He _knew_ it was too good to be real under the act. He’d let himself believe the very lie he’d instigated. Maybe it was poetic justice. His many mistakes come back to haunt him in one piercing blow. It would’ve been funny, if it didn’t hurt so damn much.

Ha. He’s so dramatic. He’s known Porthos two months. Two months is nothing.

There’s a voice in his head whispering _two months had started to feel like everything_ , but he takes another drink to drown it out.

“Aramis, please look at me.”

“Not drunk yet, Porthos. Shoo.”

He feels Porthos’ palm against his bicep, light, uncertain. It curls into a more sure grip when Aramis closes his eyes and sighs.

“I didn’t understand, Aramis.”

The hand on his arms strokes downwards, Porthos’ fingers flexing into the fabric of Aramis’ tan shirtsleeves. 

“I thought...you were asking for an _out_.”

Aramis is blindly taking a sip from his cup when the words hit the air and he frowns, blinking his eyes open to stare at Porthos like he’s grown two heads. 

“Why the hell would I want an out? You’re perfect.”

Porthos lifts his eyebrows, his eyes going soft and round as a smile tugs at his mouth. For some reason, Aramis feels like he needs to clarify, before that smile grows into the one that turns his insides to goo.

“I mean, you have questionable taste in tv shows and you’re actually completely ridiculous when you watch hockey and I hate, _hate_ , when you put your feet on the table. Oh, and you love mushrooms, which honestly just…baffles me. It’s a fungus. I don’t get why people eat them.”

Porthos is definitely snorting quiet laughter through his nose now, probably because Aramis flapped his arms over the mushrooms and ended up emptying his drink out on some poor, unprepared neighbors downstairs. Aramis leans against the railing and shouts his apologies.

Drawing him back from the railing, Porthos moves his hands to cradle Aramis’ jaw. “I’m not perfect.”

“You’re pretty damn close.”

Porthos strokes his thumbs over Aramis’ cheeks and leans in to press their foreheads together. “ _You’re_ pretty damn close. I’m the idiot who just jumped the gun and ran you off, remember?”

“Well. I suppose I could’ve _not_ shot myself in the foot…,” Aramis murmurs apologetically. “But, just to clarify….you don’t think we’re a bad joke?” Aramis’ voice catches as he lifts his gaze to Porthos’. It’s irritating. He was really trying not to be a headcase about all of this. Failing somewhat, admittedly, but definitely trying. 

“God, Aramis…,” Porthos kisses one corner of Aramis’ mouth and then hovers there. “No, absolutely not. There is nothing bad about us. I’ve spent the last two months tryin’ not to fall for you and all I’ve managed to do is fall _backwards_ , down three flights of stairs, into a damn river.”

A laugh bubbles up out of Aramis’ mouth. “A river. At the bottom of the stairs.”

“It’s hyperbole. Shut up.”

Aramis grins, tosses his empty cup over the side of the balcony, and digs both hands into Porthos’ curls. 

Kissing Porthos with everything he has is easy. It has been from the start. 

Now it just feels like flying.

 

* * *

 

It’s after three in the morning when the neighbors start banging on the wall of Porthos’ apartment. 

Porthos snaps his hips forward a little harder, slamming the bed against the wall again, and punching another shout out of Aramis at the same time. His asshole neighbors just make more noise on the other side, unfortunately. 

“Fuck off! Your dog pisses in the hallway twice a week!” Porthos shouts at the wall. Aramis laughs, his head falling back against the pillow and his hands dragging through his hair. Another thrust turns the laugh into some kind of moan-cackle hybrid. Porthos has his hands propped under Aramis’ knees, but he lets them fall away as the obnoxious banging continues.

“I swear to God….,” Porthos laughs, shifting one hand to Aramis’ hip and the other to the side of his throat.

“So rude,” Aramis manages to hiss through his grinning teeth before Porthos is kissing him and kissing him, sucking at his bottom lip, and okay, maybe he can. Maybe Porthos _can_ slow this down. Make it slow and easy. Make it last.

“Oh, fuck,” he growls. He’s hit just the right tempo that Aramis is making small, desperate sounds and clawing his fingers into Porthos’ back. 

The next thing he knows, he’s _on_ his back and Aramis rocks down onto him with a groan. It’s possible the bed’s still thumping against the wall, but Porthos can’t hear it. His shitty neighbors can pound on the wall to their hearts’ content. All that matters right now is Aramis.

Aramis, who pins his arms to the bed and runs his tongue and teeth over Porthos’ maze tattoo until he’s mapped it completely. Aramis, who only lets Porthos move when he pulls him upright, against his chest. Porthos has to shift to get his leverage back, but then it’s just. It’s right there. It’s fucking perfect. 

Aramis rides him and Porthos holds Aramis tight and the neighbor’s dog howls on the other side of the wall, like the little shit that he is.

They laugh. They laugh into their kisses until each kiss feels like the best drug on earth.

They’re still laughing, later, when they’re sprawled out against each other, sated and covered in sweat. Aramis rolls his head to the side and presses a palm against Porthos’ cheek. It seems like a somber moment, but Porthos should’ve known better.

“...How do you feel about cats?”

Porthos grins. “I love cats.”

“Good.” Aramis pats his cheek and drops his arm back to the bed like it weighs a ton. “This should work out just fine.”


End file.
